


Crooked Stitches

by StringMaster



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Death, Gore, M/M, Sadstuck, Stridercest - Freeform, eventual dirk/dave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StringMaster/pseuds/StringMaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave steps up to the role of the mortician when he finds his brother's corpse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure there's over a hundred works about Dave's reaction to his brothers death, but I thought I'd add to the list.

  You were grateful that no one would ever really know how you reacted when you saw his corpse. How in that instant your world shattered and time stopped. You must have looked pathetic as reality hit you like a freight train, forcing you to your knees in silent submission. Eyes blown wide as they took in the cooling blood and gapping wounds in his torso, a mockery of his own empty eye sockets. His stomach flayed open, while his guts spilled out. They were the traces of the scavengers that managed to beat you to his body. You could hear crows cackling not far off. Laughing at the sloppy mess they made of the formerly great enigma. Ribs peaked out, and the organs that once shivered with life stayed still, glinting from the excess body fluids.

  You felt your mind shut off, consciousness becoming a pin prick pushed far to the rear by the roaring in your ears and heat that pooled in the back of your throat. You felt like a specter to a morbid fantasy. Distantly aware of the fact that your hands reached out and wrapped around the loose intestines, delicately tucking them back into place.

  Tears burned your eyes like fire, but stubbornly refused to fall. You took the sewing kit that he always kept with him out of his pocket. Vaguely reminiscing over all the times you gave him shit for it. It took forever to thread the needle when your hands didn’t want to cooperate. The shaking made them virtually useless. But after thirty minutes of futile pushing it weaved through the hole.

  You pinched the skin together before piercing the surface. Watching as the needle disappeared and reappeared repeatedly, with a fresh glint of red each time it resurfaced. His blood dyed the white thread pink as it was pulled through.

  It was crude and shaughty work. Shame washed over you when you realized it was nothing like his perfect and precise stitching. You wondered why you even bothered; it seemed like an insult to his memory to disgrace his corpse with the reminder of your own inadequacy. The failure to measure up to him yet again. But the thought of leaving him so exposed seemed like a bigger dishonor. So you kept playing the mortician.

  You moved on to grip the end of the sword and started pulling it. With Each inch that withdrew, you cringed, curling further in on yourself. You felt the flesh and muscle rip sickeningly. Like the sword and you had become one existence, sharing the memory of the final blow dealt, what his face looked like as the inevitable dawned on him. After it was out you finished stitching him up. Using your shirt to wipe away the blood as best you could.

  Even patched up he resembled the creature from Frankenstein more than he did your brother. A twisted part of you vaguely wondered if you should try to reanimate him just for kicks, but it was dismissed when you saw his hollow sockets staring at you accusingly. Your eyes shifted to the side with contrition. You placed his shades on his face to escape the scorching gaze.

  Your heart clenched, reminding you of all the things you would never experience again and what you had always needed, but would never have. The playful noogies that you sometimes wished would turn into an affectionate hug that would quell your own insecurities. The long nights of just dicking around together, that meant so much to you, just because you felt the semblance of familial love. The things that you would never admit out loud, poured from your lips as you clung to his body. Mumbling how sorry you were for not turning out how he wanted you too. How grateful you were for everything he ever did for you. The tears that had refused to fall coursed down your face in scalding trails. At some point you think you told him you loved him, lost in the waves of incoherent babble.

  You stayed there for hours, maybe days. You didn’t really care. All the warmth had faded from him when you finally found the resolve to stand again and turn away from the heart-rending scene. Those moments let you keep a detached façade when you returned later, rattling off a bullshit eulogy you know would have brought a slight quirk to his lips. He knew that it was all an act. You could feel the same eyeless gaze on you from behind his shades. Then he was buried in the ground, away from the scavengers and prying eyes. Never to see the light of day again, while the same weapon that did him in stood proudly as his tombstone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first things I've ever written, I want to thank you for taking the time to read this mediocre piece. I'm sure it has several errors in it but at least I tried. I'm debating about writing more, depending on how this is received. Any continuation will probably include Dave's reaction when he finally meets Dirk, and how their relationship progresses from there.


End file.
